Now it was a staring contest. Michael was looking down at the strange, grubby little man that sat in front of him, a jar in his lap. He recognized him as Ezekiel, the bizarre mentally shattered ‘psychic’ that Isaac toted around. Why the sorcerer kept something so obviously useless was beyond him. It certainly wasn’t out of compassion, as the demon of a man knew nothing of the sort.

Ezekiel had been staring at him for five minutes now. Michael, having really nothing else to do, returned the favor. Muse had not reappeared since the day prior when he had learned of what Isaac had done to Raphael. So it seemed now he was now meant to be tortured by being stared at.

“I mean, it’s not like you didn’t see this coming,” Ezekiel blinked.

Michael had the sensation that he was coming into the middle of a conversation. “Excuse me?”

“It’s like a paddle-ball. He’s like a big paddle-ball. I mean, okay, a big creepy spooky paddle-ball. Paddle-ball of dooooom!”

“In the name of all that is Holy, what in the blazes are you talking about?”

Ezekiel sniffed, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and kept staring at him. “The man is his world. He’s not something that lives in or rules it - he is his world. It’s like if the ball got stuck in something made out of glass. The paddle really really wants to follow, but the hole’s too small. The paddle has to follow. The paddle must follow, so it starts to break the glass.” The man paused. “No, no that won’t work. You can’t. They’re the same thing. It’d be like cutting your head off. The paddle’s the bigger part, innit? Do you wanna do that? Nooo, I didn’t think so.” He paused again for a long time and shook his head suddenly. “No, see - the glass is breaking. It’s already breaking. Crackidy.”

Michael groaned quietly. Insult to injury, it seemed. Being blathered at by a madman.

“That’s why everything is going wrong. His world can’t be in ours. He can’t be here. It’s like… physics. Or something. Superphysics.” A pause, then he giggled suddenly. “It is now!”

“Muse, if you’re here,” Michael called out dryly. Ezekiel was starting to give him a headache. “Could you please tell him to go away… or… at least explain what he’s saying?”

“Your bet’s as good as mine,” she said as she appeared by the wall.

Ezekiel suddenly turned to look at her and let out a small breath. “Imma miss you, Ghostie…” he sniffled, this time looking like he was about to cry. Muse looked at him in confused concern, walking towards him.

“Zeek, what’s wrong?”

“But it’s the right thing to do. You’re the world to him. No, more than that - you’re both worlds,” Ezekiel now was sniffling through tears. Michael watched, flabbergasted with the strange pseudo-conversation, as Ezekiel threw his arms around Muse’s legs, hugging her. “But I’m still gunna miss you…” he said, heartbroken.

Muse reached down and gently stroked his hair. “Hey, Zeek, hun - it’s fine…”

“But there’s no coming back.”

“Um… where am I going?”

The conversation was seemingly cut short as the basement door swung open. Ezekiel let go of Muse and gripped his jar, standing up and stepping back. “Away, away away… Stamp collector cometh.”

Isaac slowly walked down the stairs and looked around the room. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked curiously.

“Hell if I know. Zeek was going on about… Hell if I know. Something about a paddle-ball and broken glass. Something about worlds and… I don’t know. Said I was going somewhere.”

“Hm,” Isaac turned his attention to Ezekiel. Ezekiel met his gaze, blinked a few times, then suddenly started to laugh.

“Ooooh! Oh! Sorry! Sorry! My bad. Wrong one!” Ezekiel kept giggling and hugged his jar to his chest. “Mr. Blinky and I are sorry. We got them all confused. Wrong one. Not time yet.” He sniffed again and giggled. “Awkward. Heee. Bye!”

The rest in the room could only watch as he ran stumbling up the steps, giggling as he went down the hallway, leaving the door open. Isaac turned to look at Muse with a raised eyebrow.

“Hey, don’t look at me, man - you’re the one who hired him.” Muse held up her hands and disappeared in a swirl of white smoke.

“Hm,” was all the sorcerer had to say in reply. Michael was busy trying to drop him dead with a glare, with the same results as last time.

Michael watched as Isaac took a step towards him and took a handkerchief out of his pocket. He took something out of it and placed it down on the floor directly in front of him. It took Michael a few seconds to register exactly what he was looking at. Suddenly, he roared in rage and started to scream and kick, howling and hurling obscenities at the man in front of him.

Isaac only smiled thinly, turned on his heels and walked upstairs.

A single silver and gold pistol, stained and crusted with dried blood, lay on the floor at his feet.

Zadkiel lifted the teacup, took a sip, and placed it back down on the table. It struck her how old her hand looked. The skin was starting to sink between the bones, making her look much older than she felt. She thought that it was rather unavoidable to think about such things at a time like this.

She knew he was there before she saw him. A faint smile crossed her wrinkled features.

“Hello, Isaac.”

“Zadkiel.”

“Sit, have some tea.” She reached out and took the pot, poured the liquid into a second cup. Grey and black like a shade, he slipped up next to the table, looking down at her quizzically. “You’re going to kill me,” she scolded him like she was talking to a child. “The very least you could do would be polite about it.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He paused for a moment before speaking. “I suppose so.”

“There now,” Zadkiel smiled warmly as the sorcerer sat down in the chair next to her. She would have in her youth thought him a handsome man, but she knew better than to think him younger than she. It was odd, though, how she still felt that she was somehow older than him. She wondered how he fooled so many people - it was really in his eyes. There in those grey eyes, you could see his age. She often wondered if you could see it in her own, although her lifespan was that of a normal mortal’s. Seventy years, that was a lifespan to most. Chuckling at the absurdity of the moment, she refilled her own glass. “You were raised a gentleman, after all.”

He chuckled once and lifted the glass, sipping the tea. “Your compatriot did not meet his death with such dignity. I doubt any of the others will, either.”

“They lack the… insight, I suppose. And I am old, sorcerer… I am ready.”

“Your insight is stolen, Zadkiel.” Isaac’s features darkened for a moment. “Your gift does not belong to you.”

That wounded her feelings. She was surprised at that, that she could still be hurt so easily. “I know what happened, and your grudge isn’t with me. You cannot blame me for what happened to her.” Zadkiel watched as his features suddenly grew tired. She herself was familiar with loneliness, and despite Isaac being her enemy, she felt for him. Reaching out a hand, she rest it on his wrist. Grey eyes turned to her, and she saw nothing but a faint glimmer of pain. “Immortality is a strange thing. You didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, did you?”

“I did hazard a guess.”

“I don’t envy you. For more reasons than that.”

“Only fools envy me, Zadkiel.”

She laughed quietly. The man was so dramatic. He slowly stood up from his chair and walked behind her. She didn’t turn to look. She would rather not see it coming. She felt a hand rest gently on each of her shoulders. “Take an old woman’s advice. It is those around us that make our lives worth living. You have lived more lives than most. Don’t waste them alone, with nothing but your books and spells for company.”

There was a long pause. “I will remember that, thank you.”

Zadkiel shut her eyes.

Michael roared and spat at the man in front of him, kicked desperately, thrashing so hard for freedom that his wrists began to bleed from the restraints digging into his flesh.

Isaac slowly set down a necklace - a simple golden cross on a thin chain - next to the bloodstained pistol, turned on his heels and walked away without anything but a simple thin smile. The basement door clicked shut. Muse could only watch as the Crusader in the chair continued to thrash. If she didn’t stop him, he was going to break both of his wrists. She took shape next to him.

“Michael! Hey, hey - come on, quit it. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I swear - I swear by my sword to God that I will get revenge! Isaac!” he roared again, thrashing. His heaving tipped the chair - Muse barely managed to catch it in time before he crashed onto his side.

“Dude!” She put the chair back on its feet and held it down. Finally, Michael seemed to grow tired and slumped against the chair weakly. “Okay, tin-can. I’m missing something.”

“Those… were my friends. My companions. He’s killing them - one by one - why?! He’s a sadist and a monster! He is the devil on earth! Isaac, face me! Coward!” Michael wrenched himself again one last time before lowering his head and letting out a low moan. “He’s doing this to torment me…”

“I…” Muse looked down at the gun and the necklace. She cringed. That was just cruel. Sure, maybe Isaac had a reason. They had tried to put her into a bottle for eternity. But… they didn’t torture her. God knows they probably could have. She looked down at the man chained to the chair and felt pity for him. She put her hand on his shoulder.

“Let me go, Muse… let me go. He’s going to kill everyone else…”

“I…” Muse swallowed hard reflexively. She was completely torn. She wanted to, and yet, she knew better. Pissing Isaac off aside, Michael was out to kill her friends and everything like them. She couldn’t.

“I’m sorry…”

Annael stood next to his chair, beaming his most charming smile at those around him. He adjusted the collar of his pale yellow shirt and sat down. He turned his attention to the rest of those sitting around the circular table. “Fondest hellos,” he said, doing his best to keep his Italian accent to a minimum.

Most around him replied, except for an older man with a thick beard who sat to his right. “We are surprised that the Vatican chose to send you.”

“The Vatican saw this summit as the highest priority. In the interest of making their presence rather… personal, they sent me. I hope you do not take this as a sign of aggression, Rabbi,” he kept the charming smile on his face as he leaned back in his chair, twisting one of the rings on his right hand around with his thumb.

“No, it just seems that a Crusader would be better used elsewhere,” the older man replied. The eight others who sat around the table simply watched the conversation in silence, their faces carefully guarded.

Annael shut his eyes for a moment. It was typical. Even after humanity faced a much deeper darker threat in those monsters that now legally walked amongst them - some ancient grudges were hard to give up. Opening his eyes again, he turned his attention back to the Rabbi.

“I could not think of any better use for a Crusader than here. This discussion on the recent uncontrolled outbreaks in Eastern Europe is of the utmost importance to us. It is our opinion that the Romanovs are attempting to subtly invade. We do not believe that-“

“You wish us to go to war, Holy Soldier?” said a young woman from the other side. The sheer quantity of necklaces the woman wore told Annael quickly that she was the representative that the Pagans had sent. How the mottled collection of loosely related religions managed to communicate with each other long enough to pick someone was beyond him. “We have already done that once. It ended poorly.”

“It ended because of a lack of Faith.”

“In whom - the Vatican?” snapped a rather large African man from the end of the table.

Annael spun the ring around on his finger again. Damn. This was not going well. It would be no good if he was seen as the villain in the room. Focusing, he exerted just the smallest amount of his will. Reaching into the minds of those around him, he gently soothed the tension in the room. There would be no point in starting an argument. Slipping out of their minds as smoothly as he had entered, he smiled as they all visibly relaxed. “Forgive me, my friends. I fear I have started off on the wrong foot. Please, I have not come to argue the validity of the past. Let us focus on the present and the future.”

“I am afraid you have little future left.”

Annael stood up fast enough that he upended the chair. The voice had come from behind him, from the wall. There was no door there, and he had seen no one walk up behind him. He found himself staring into the grey eyes of a man he did not recognize. The identity of the man didn’t not dawn on him until he noticed the military coat and the swirling archaic circle that was fading away on the wall behind him.

“Ostheim!”

The man only smiled thinly. “It appears so.” Grey eyes turned to the room. “I am rather offended I did not receive an invitation.” Annael wondered if he was attempting to make a joke. “I am sure it was misplaced by the post. Regardless, you could have called.” Ostheim gestured with his hand.

Annael only heard a small gurgle and a strange snapping noise from behind him. Curiosity being too much for him, he turned.

He nearly fainted at what he saw.

Everyone was dead. Everyone had died in that instant. Annael knew who had killed them, but how was a mystery. On each of them, blood poured and oozed out from a large circular hole under their jaw, in the soft spot under their chin between the bone. Something had punched through the flesh into the skull. Blood was pouring, seeping into expensive clothing and robes. Flecks of bone and grey matter were swept along with the flow. The red liquid, like from some overturned glass, pooled across the table and dripped off the edges, oozing into the carpet. Vacant, blank eyes. They had been watching Annael and the sorcerer when they died, and they watched them still.

“Ahem.”

Annael turned to face the sorcerer - his own eyes wide with terror. They were met with nothing but calm grey. “Ostheim, think on what you are doing.” He attempted to reach into the other man’s mind, attempting to persuade or to break. But it was no use.

“Ah, now - do you think your hypnotism would work on me? How quaint,” he said casually, almost friendly. The sorcerer reached out and adjusted the collar on Annael’s shirt, brushing some lint off of the shoulder. Annael shuddered, fear paralyzing him. “I suppose you would not know any better,” Isaac said thoughtfully. “They never do tell you soldiers where they learned their clever little tricks, do they? No matter.”

Annael could only watch - eyes vacant, unfocused - he felt no pain as the blood poured from his neck. He collapsed to the ground and watched his own blood seep into the rug. It was odd. It all struck him as perfectly strange. He felt no pain, he could not scream or move. And yet, he lay there, watching his own lifeblood seep into the carpet. Slowly his vision began to blur, grow fuzzy around the edges. It was so… slow.

He would awaken, he knew. Raphael would resurrect him.

He would wake up.

Michael’s rage had gone beyond words or reasoning. There was nothing but one resonating note in his mind. He wanted to pound the thing’s face in. He wanted, as he had never wanted anything before, to maim Isaac. Pound him to a pulp. To cause him pain.

Bloodstained ring, a simple golden cross on a thin chain, a silver and gold pistol.

Michael made a vow. He would hurt the sorcerer.

He would pay.

“Ghost?”

Nothing.

“Muse?” Michael asked quietly.

“Yeah.” The girl appeared sitting against the post.

Michael rolled his shoulder, trying to get the blood flowing to his forearm. Two emotions ran through him now. Hatred and fear. Fear took the precedent right now, as the object of his hatred would not face him like a man. “What is it like to die?”

It took her a long time to speak. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I find myself standing at the precipice. I thought that perhaps you had some particular insight into what happens. Perhaps it will give me some peace of mind.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as sullen as he felt. He focused down at the bloodstained trinkets still lying on the middle of the floor in front of him. Gabriel. Annael. Zadkiel. Gone.

The room was silent as he turned thought after thought over in his head. Even as he mourned his friends, the hatred for Isaac grew. He would make that man regret what he had done. And here Michael was, trying to appeal to some shred of humanity left over in a dead girl. What had become of him? “I should never have asked-“

“It’s dark.”

Michael turned his head up to look at her.

“It’s dark,” she continued. “It’s not… it’s not dark like night or anything, or a dark room or like when you shut your eyes. It’s not warm, or cold, or painful. It’s nothing. Just numb. You don’t fall… and it’s very quiet. Peaceful, I guess. Very full of nothing.”

He shut his eyes and in some part of his mind, tried to picture what she was talking about. It still made his stomach churn. He hoped that his compatriots were spared the time to think about their own deaths.

“Dying itself is… It’s like going to sleep or being put under for surgery. I died slow, so the world kind of… faded out. Everything just got blurry. The exact moment I died is impossible to pin my finger on - kind of like how if I asked you to remember the exact point you fell asleep, you couldn’t.”

Michael was very quiet, and he opened his mouth to say something. She cut him off, somehow knowing what he was going to ask.

“And no, it doesn’t hurt,” she finished. He lowered his head again and sat there, thinking. He was afraid when he admitted it to himself. He feared death. He didn’t know why - he had done his service to God. Surely Heaven awaited him. But just the concept of it made him ill.

“Correction. Whatever causes your death? Yeah, that part hurts… but it all goes away pretty quick.”

Michael opened his eyes and found Muse gone. “Muse?”

“Yeah?” she replied from nowhere in particular.

“Thank you…”

“No problem.”